Chapter 10 #2
The Duke’s gaze held hers, unwavering. “Then tell me what it is.”
Madeline’s fingers clenched. She could feel her mother in the back of her mind, could hear her voice, could feel the familiar shame pressing against her skin as if it lived there.
Do not eat like that. Do not chew so eagerly. Do not look as though you enjoy anything. Men do not like women who indulge.
It had been drilled into her so thoroughly that she hardly knew where the lesson ended and her own instincts began.
“I was taught,” she said finally, and her throat tightened around the words, “that it is unseemly to eat much in front of men.”
The Duke blinked, genuinely taken aback. “Unseemly?”
Madeline tried to shrug as if it did not matter. “It is… common advice.”
“For whom?” he demanded.
“For women,” she replied, and the bitterness in her voice surprised her.
His jaw flexed. “Why?”
Madeline’s pulse hammered. She did not want to say it. She did not want to let those words exist in this room, in this house, under his gaze, because if she said it, she would have to admit she still believed it enough to obey.
Her silence was not enough to deter the Duke. “Miss Watton,” he said again, low and insistent. “Why?”
Madeline’s throat burned. She forced the truth out, because something in him would not let her hide behind politeness.
“Because of my body,” she said, and the words came out almost like a confession.
The Duke went still.
Madeline’s cheeks flushed hot, humiliation flooding her so quickly she could hardly breathe. “I was told,” she continued, voice trembling now despite her efforts, “that it would be unbecoming to indulge when my figure is already… not what it ought to be.”
Silence reigned. The fire cracked softly in the grate, the only sound in the room, and Madeline stood there feeling as though she had torn her own skin open and let him see what lived underneath.
’The Duke’s expression changed in increments, shock first, then something heavier emerged. He took another step closer. Madeline’s breath caught, instinct screaming at her to retreat, but she did not move, because some stubborn part of her refused to be chased into a corner by shame.
His voice, when it came, was low and measured. “Who told you that?”
Madeline swallowed. “It does not matter.”
“It matters,” he said quietly.
She flinched slightly, then lifted her chin again. “It was… my mother.”
The words seemed to still him. Wilhelm leaned back, one hand rising to his brow as he closed his eyes briefly in weary understanding.
“I see,” he said at last.
Madeline’s hands shook slightly now, though she kept them clasped. She hated that this was what he saw when he looked at her, hated that she had given him this ugly piece of herself, and yet another part of her, quieter and far more dangerous, felt a strange relief at having said it aloud at all.
Wilhelm noticed. After a moment’s hesitation, he leaned forward, and slowly, as though giving her time to pull away if she wished, he reached out and covered her hands with his own.
“And you believed her,” he said with a quiet sorrow that made her chest ache.
Madeline’s throat tightened. “I did not have much choice. I was young, and she was my mother.”
His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly, warm and steady.
“That was not foolish,” he said. “That was trust.”
She looked up then, startled, and met his gaze. There was no heat in his eyes now, only intent, and something like care.
“No one should have taught you to see yourself that way,” he added softly.
Wilhelm’s gaze dropped, briefly, to her mouth, then rose again, and something in his eyes turned hotter, darker, making Madeline’s pulse jump violently.
He leaned in with a quiet ease, close enough that she caught the clean scent of soap and wool, the warmth of him steady and grounding. His mouth curved slightly, as though amused by a private thought.
“I should like to correct one misconception,” he said lightly. “Your figure is quite attractive.” The hint of a smile deepened, softening his tone. “Very becoming, some might say.”
Madeline blinked. Then, despite herself, a quiet, incredulous laugh escaped her. It surprised her almost as much as it did him.
“Your Grace,” she said, shaking her head faintly, color warming her cheeks, “you are incorrigible.”
“Honest,” he countered gently. “I’m being honest, Madeline.”
Her lips parted. “Your Grace…”
His eyes held hers, full of fire now, the sort of fire that did not belong in a dining room, that did not belong between a Duke and his governess, that did not belong anywhere except the private spaces occupied by a husband and wife.
Madeline’s hands trembled. She could feel the pull between herself and the Duke like a physical thing, like a cord tightening. She remembered his mouth on hers, the taste of him, the way her own body had melted against him before her mind could stop it.
She wanted to feel it again.
’The Duke’s gaze flicked down again, to her lips, and Madeline’s breath caught because she knew he was thinking of it too. His hand lifted slightly, as if he meant to touch her, and Madeline’s skin seemed to tighten in anticipation, every nerve awakened.
Then the door creaked.
“Papa?” Tessa’s small voice cut through the charged silence like a bell.
The Duke jerked back as though struck, his posture snapping into rigid control so swiftly that it was almost frightening. Madeline stepped back as well, heart pounding, cheeks still burning.
Tessa stood in the doorway in her nightgown. “Did she get into trouble for not eating her dinner?” Her hair was loose and her eyes were wide with worry. “Mrs. Hayward always says that it might hurt Cook’s feelings if I do not eat all the vegetables on my plate.”
’The Duke snorted lightly, clearly amused by his daughter’s words. “No,” he said gently. “Miss Watton is not in trouble.”
Tessa’s gaze darted between them, suspicious. “You both look… odd.”
Madeline forced a smile, though her pulse still raced. She crossed the room quickly, lowering herself to Tessa’s height. “No one is angry,” she said gently. “Your father was only asking me about my health.”
Tessa frowned. “Are you sick?”
“No,” Madeline replied, smoothing her hair back. “I am well.”
Tessa studied her a moment longer, then seemed to decide she believed her, because she relaxed slightly.
After giving a mild shrug, the child reached forward and grabbed hold of Madeline’s sleeve.
“Will you come with me?” she asked. “Mrs. Hayward said I must sleep, but I cannot, because I thought you were being scolded.”
Madeline’s chest tightened again. “Of course,” she said softly.
She glanced sidelong at the Duke.
“Good night, Your Grace,” Madeline said in a tone that was barely audible.
His eyes flicked to hers for the briefest moment. “Good night,” he replied, and there was something in his tone that made Madeline’s stomach twist with a strange sense of longing.
She led Tessa out into the corridor, the child’s hand warm in hers, and walked her back to her room, murmuring reassurance as Tessa climbed into bed.
“You are certain you are feeling all right? You do not need to see a doctor?” The little girl yawned broadly. “You are not leaving because you do not like our food, are you, Miss Watton?” Tessa asked sleepily, eyes heavy.
Madeline’s throat tightened. “I am here,” she whispered. “Sleep.”
Tessa’s fingers curled around Madeline’s hand once, then slowly loosened as she drifted off, her breathing evening out.
Madeline remained beside her a moment longer, watching her small face in the candlelight, and felt again that sharp ache of attachment, that terrifying warmth that made her want to stay, protect, and belong to this family.
When she finally returned to her own room, the corridor was quiet, the house settled into night.
She opened her door, expecting darkness. Instead, she found a tray on the small table near the fire, covered neatly with a cloth. The scent of warm bread and broth rose faintly beneath it, and beside it rested a folded note.
Madeline went still. Her heart began to pound again, slower than before, heavier, as though it understood something her mind had not yet dared to admit.
She crossed the room with careful steps, as if the tray might vanish if she moved too quickly.
The note was addressed simply. Miss Watton.
Madeline’s fingers trembled as she unfolded it. And before she could even read the words, she felt warmth bloom in her chest, because she already knew, with a certainty that frightened her, that this was attention and care, something a man like the Duke of Kirkford did not give lightly.